Give Me Back My Eyes
by Lohce Azcry
Summary: They may have met once before everything ever truly started, but one cannot remember, and the other chose to forget.


_I saw myself reflected in you_

_and mourning was all I could really do_

* * *

They had determined the location of their meeting to be held in a local tavern named _The Smoking Pipe_ on the fifth of October. A quaint little bar built on the outskirts of Boston, it was usually occupied by simple folk, farmers, and well-meant colonists whose lives were not terribly eventful. Trouble often found itself more rare as you moved farther from the heart of the city, and therefore there was a pleasant atmosphere as Haytham, Charles, and Hickey sat down at an empty table towards the back of the room. A small scattering of occupants filled a few chairs, talking loosely about mundane topics. A band of banjos, harmonicas, drums and fiddles played in the corner, some men singing slightly out-of-tune songs in a drunken manner, but it was rare for there to be anything more violent than an argument to take place in _The Smoking Pipe_.

In other words, it was a perfect place for the three Templar's to discuss manners best left to oblivious ears.

"Everything is well under way, Master," Charles reported, grinning with pleasure. In the months that spanned since Haytham last encountered the man, he noticed that Charles hadn't changed at all, in appearance or demeanor. His status as second in command had given him an air of authority he hadn't held before when Haytham had first met him on the docks of Boston, and there seemed to be an almost... hungry glint in his eyes. It bothered Haytham sometimes, for it reminded him of a man who could never stop wanting no matter how much the world gave him, but so far Charles had shown no sign of rebellion to his authority or the Order. Of course, he always kept a close eye on him regardless, as he did of everyone under his authority, but he had always considered Charles to be more rationalized, trustworthy and intelligent than the rest of his inner circle, and so the concern was tucked away, but not forgotten. He had read the Order's history: he knew of the Borgia, of the corruption that has seeded their acts and slandered the Order, and he was always wary for any signs of a repetition.

"Our influence spreads across the Colonies with little resistance. Assassins are being discovered, located and dealt with as we speak, and I'm assured by trusted contacts that in only a few short months we will have full Templar occupation within the Colonies."

"Then," he added, briefly scrutinizing Haytham's expression as he took a quick intake of ale, "we can continue our search for the precursor site."

Haytham kept his face neutral and nodded. "Very good, Charles. Excellent news." He turned to Hickey, who had, upon sitting down, immediately lounged on his chair with a tankard held loosely in his hand, staring off into space. It was a wonder sometimes how a drunk like him could keep himself composed enough to remain in the Order, but then again, Haytham reminded himself the cunning, if not cocky intelligence and brute strength the man had demonstrated when they had gone to retrieve Johnson's stolen research.

"And how is our Assassin in chains faring, Hickey?" he inquired.

The Templar snapped to attention and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Oi, the black nut?" He chuckled, taking a swig from his tankard. "Did as you asked, 'n told 'im to walk away with 'is tail between his legs or 'ave a knife run from ear to ear. Course, it didn't take 'im nothing but a second to make a choice. Ran off to some house in the hills." He grinned, looking at Haytham with a wicked glint in his eyes. "Course, it did take a bit of, ah, twistin' and breakin' of legs to get 'im to bend. But 'e didn't put a fight after that." He took another drink. "You'd expect a littl' more from a bloody Grandmaster."

Haytham sighed, mocking disappointment. "It seems not all Assassins are as brave and noble as they claim they are. So, he has taken to the frontier, you say? And you are sure he will no longer pose a threat?"

"Watched 'im hobble through the front door myself, an' he didn't have the air of it. Too quiet. We beat the fight out 'o 'im alright." Hickey muttered, belching. Charles wrinkled his nose. He had never become quite as used to Hickey's improper behavior like the others did, and Haytham found his discomfort humorous, though he would never tell that to Charles directly.

He nodded. "Well then, let that serve as a message to the rest. With their Grandmaster out of the way, it won't be long before any stragglers lose their spirit, and we can finally look to the future."

A silence.

A smile spread on his face. The progressive news had brought a sudden light to his mood, and the pleasant atmosphere in The Smoking Pipe had brought a forth a desire for light talk and good drink, something he hadn't done in a long time.

"Good men I feel that, in light of the recent events that has brought the Templars good fortune, a small celebration is in order. Go." He gestured around the tavern. "Eat. Drink. Let us be merry this fine day, no?"

There was a brief pause, a moment of doubt. He internally laughed in amusement. Of course they would question the statement: since when did their strict Grandmaster order for _celebration_? Nevertheless, he kept his cheer, knowing they would eventually come around. And, of course, they did. The expressions on Hickey and Charles slowly morphed from suspiciousness to pleasant surprise. A mischievous grin formed on Hickey's face, his eyes looking beyond Haytham to a small group of girls chattering in the corner. "Much 'ppreciated, sir." he thanked, taking one last swing from his tankard before standing and walking away.

Once Hickey had left, Haytham turned to Charles, who remained hesitant to leave his seat. He almost chuckled. Typical of Charles: his awkward social skills had always made parties and large gatherings uncomfortable for him and usually ended up with grumblings alone in the corner with half-full glasses of wine. Most of the Order ignored it, although Hickey never failed to take an opportunity to poke fun. But Haytham knew if he wanted to preserve the careful partnership with his second in command, he would need to ensure the man had company.

"Oh come now, Charles. This is no time for anti-social behavior." Haytham stood up and pushed his chair in, holding his hand out to Charles. "Let us talk over drink."

If it had been another man, Charles would have politely rejected the offer with a wave of the hand, but this was Haytham, and Charles would never deny himself the chance for good man-to-man conversation with his Grandmaster. So, with an exasperated sigh, he smiled. "Very well, sir." Grasping Haytham's outstretched hand, he hefted himself up. "After all, do I really have a choice in the matter when it comes to you?"

And so for the next two hours, Haytham, Charles and Hickey commenced to enjoying their newly gained time in The Smoking Pipe. Haytham and Charles took a pair of seats by the bar for easy refills and participated in light conversation. Hickey, of course, wasted no time in gathering a small group of giggling girls, relaying one of his many adventures in a drunken slur, one hand supplying him with ale and the other rested on the bottom of the girl seated in his lap.

"So, how are your crops in Virginia faring?" Haytham asked, taking a careful sip from his steaming mug of apple cider (a private luxury of his). Although they were neighbors, he and Charles rarely visited the other's plantations when they had the time to tend to them. Haytham had often wondered why he didn't ride to Charles on the nights he slept in his rarely-used quarters, but he supposed an answer like that would lead to other wonderings he'd rather not face.

"Very well. The slaves have done their fair share of work, I assure you. My cotton fields have never looked so full and ripe, and the gold flows like a river. I expect a good sum come harvest this year. And how are yours?"

"Marvelous. It's a wonder how it manages so well without me there as frequent as most owners are. I do make the occasion to visit every month or so. And how are the recruits? Spreading our Order, I hope?"

"Oh yes." Charles nodded eagerly. "With Assassins being weeded out by the day, we have hundreds of well-abled men joining our cause and taking the Oath. Our influence is strong, and getting stronger. You know, sir, I always wondered how the Assassins managed the grow so rapidly in such a short amount of time. We're finding there's at least twenty in each region, fifty in each colony."

Haytham smirked, remembering the time he had asked this very question. "They simply boast a more _appeasing_ product. People love a man who promises freedom more than a man who promises safety and peace. They flock to the answer that soothes their worries and questions without asking for pondering and thought. I have noted as I read our Order's history and observe our fight against them that it simply takes one Assassin to infect an entire country with his ideals. That is why you must silence them while they still breed, less we turn to find a legion of them standing at our door."

Charles nodded. "I see."

Haytham opened his mouth, intending to start a new topic, when he noticed something beyond Charles's shoulder that forced him to pause.

A woman.

She sat two seats away from Charles, leaning over the countertop and nursing a small glass of what looked like beer. There wasn't much about exactly _her_ he was intrigued by; brown hair tied into a simple bun, blue-and-white dress, a common figure, nothing special. He did notice that the dress seemed a little more enlarged than the usual female attire, and there were obviously layers underneath, but he dismissed this. No, what interested Haytham was the brown bundle tied around her waist, and the tiny, dark head that was currently buried in her chest as she lifted her arm to take another drink.

He'd never seen an infant carried like that. Like a sack, but turned to the front and swaddled to the chest to prevent movement. The baby didn't _look _uncomfortable from Haytham's point of view, but the fact she was obviously his guardian and she was drinking in his company alarmed the Templar to the point in which he felt he had to speak up.

"Sir?" Charles asked as Haytham stood from his chair and approached the woman.

"Just a moment Charles."

He stood with her back to him, and cleared his throat just as she finished the last of her drink.

Hearing him, she turned around, an expression of mild surprise and suspicion at being interrupted. "Yes?" she asked, setting her glass down, and Haytham swore she had a tone of alarm to the question. _Ah, so she's been caught._

"Madam, I cannot help but notice it appears you are drinking in the presence of a babe."

At first she looked at him blankly, absorbing the sentence with her mouth pursed, and then he could see it (though later he would wonder what that _it _was) click in her eyes, which he noticed were a bright, hazel brown, like a spark. The suspicion melted away. Her lips raised into a knowing grin. "Oh, him?" she asked, gesturing to the child strapped to her chest, "I'd have my throat slit if I came back to his mother with so much as the_ idea_ of alcohol on me. No, no, I was simply having a sip of cider, that's all."

"Ah." he said, his worry soothed. He pointed to the wrappings. "And may I ask what that assortment is that holds...?"

"Oh," she shrugged, "I have no idea how to pronounce his name. He comes from a mother of native heritage and the name is impossible to say without knowing the language." A pause, in which she examined the man standing before her, valuing whether he was trustworthy enough. This he allowed, as he knew he would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed, although he'd be more subtle about it. "Have to give him some medical care, so his mother fashioned this for me as an easy means of travel. He's perfectly comfortable, easy to remove and place, and I can move freely as well."

Moments after her explanation, the child began to move, struggling in what little space he had. His tiny browned arms jerked, and his peaceful face scrunched, mouth opening for a high pitched wail. Just as soon as he began to scream, a wretched cough interrupted it. Something in Haytham moved at the sound. Along with the natural instinct all adults have to protect children and the discomfort they have when children are in pain, Haytham found the babe reminded him of...

Ziio.

The thought was...strange. Firstly, the Ziio he had spent those brief moments of time with would never _dream_ of allowing her child to accompany anyone other than her, especially a white woman who, he assumed, didn't live within her native village and couldn't even speak her language (the very thought made him internally chuckle). Secondly, it was impossible to tell if the child resembled him. His skin wasn't too dark, but it did hold the air of native, and the mop of hair on his head was pitch black. There was nothing about his facial features that screamed Kenway or Ziio, and the boy had yet to open his eyes in the midst of his sickly screaming.

_And why do I even entertain this thought? I have long abandoned the notion of Ziio, and yet I think of her now as if we parted yesterday. And this boy, who has nothing to do with either one of us._

Yet he could still feel it, this dreadful, annoying insistence that this child had a connection. He forced it down, but it stubbornly held, so he kept his face and held it in, expecting it to eventually fade.

"Oh, poor baby." the woman cooed, carefully lifting him and resting him on her shoulder. There was a small knitted cloth diaper tied to his waist, partially hidden by the swaddle. She patted him softly on the back as he cried, a sob that pricked his heart. "He's been sick, so I've to get him to a doctor." she explained to Haytham.

An expression of worry crossed his face. He was _far _too attached to this child. "Is it serious?"

"Probably not." she assured. "Just your common illness. Nothing a doctor can't fix."

There was a silence then, in which the babe took the time to increase the volume of his wail. She rocked a little, patting his back and cooing, but it seemed to only stress him more, and she looked back at him apologetically and shrugged._ What can you do?_

And then Haytham did something that he did not expect himself to do. He gestured to the crying boy. "May I?"

The woman paused, and watched him, all humor gone from her face. He could almost hear it: _I could say yes and you could calm him down because it looks like I'm not cut for it and we'd part ways merry, or I could say yes and you could calm him down and then calmly ask me for everything I own or you'll throw him across the room._ He himself didn't expect her to comply; the request was entirely alien to him, something that only emerged because of this unnatural interest in the child. Quite honestly, he was hoping she would decline, he would apologize, and he would return to his spot and continue conversing with Charles, no harm done. This little event would be tucked away, and Ziio would remain as a distant memory.

But fate never took sides, and her cautious composure softened. He knew the answer then, and patiently held his hands out as she lifted the crying boy from her shoulder and slowly, carefully handed him to Haytham.

Haytham had never handled a babe, but he had watched others enough to know the basics. His left hand supported the bottom, while his right held back the head, leaning the small body into his left shoulder. He felt tiny fingers search, fumble and then finally grasp onto his coat. Gently, he began rocking on his heels. "Hush now." he said softly as cries tried to claw their way out of the babe's throat, and instantly wished he could take it back.

_Such a fool I am for a Grand Master. Rocking a child I do not know in hopes to calm him, for no other reason than this childish connection I've manufactured because of that damned Ziio. _

He flicked his eyes to the woman, who observed him with mild wariness, but didn't interrupt. She was waiting for the betrayal, he could tell by the tentative hesitance poised for action in the center of her eyes. It would not surprise him if she had a knife or gun hidden under her dress, and the flexing of her right hand gave him reason to believe she had a hidden knife under her thick sleeve. But he smiled back at her, the feel of the child's warm body on his shoulder sparking a fire which he did not bother to try and extinguish. He felt, to be frank, like a father, and the imaginary parenthood he had given himself gave him a sense of pride.

When he glanced at Charles, he found the man turned away, gazing off into space.

Finally, the boy began to slow, his cries waning until he was simply sniffling. The small, tense body laxed, and his ears were filled with a tiny cough before the boy was settled into his shoulder. The woman peeked over, and beamed. "Lucky you. He's sleeping again," she whispered

He smiled. It did not pain him as he pried the sleeping babe off his shoulder and carefully, as if handing over a glass vase covered in oil, passed him back to the arms of the woman, who placed the boy back into the straps, but for the briefest of moments he longed for that warmth again.

_This child needs to leave now_, the Templar inside him thought,_ before I make a soft fool out of myself._

The two stood there for a minute, smiling in a pregnant silence, each waiting for the other to end the encounter. The babe was snug in the straddle, the woman turning to slide money next to the empty cup on the counter.

"Well," she said, "I-

He saw it.

In her eyes. It sat in the middle of a ring of hazel brown, gazing at him with flat truth.

_Templar._

Suddenly it was falling into place. He could imagine the bracer hidden beneath her sleeve, the white under the blue, hood tucked away. Her actions, her manner of surprise and calmness. Pity flickered inside him. An Assassin caught in the middle of a purge. No wonder she had to be so calm. And with a _babe_ as well.

_But what luck you have to stumble across the Grand Master. And your (fear, anger, wonder, surprise?) has failed you now._

And then another, more surprising: _It always comes back to Templars and Assassins. _

Then it was gone. But they both knew it was there, hidden the the corners. The smile continued, but it's cheer left her eyes.

"-thank you for your assistance," she continued, tone as calm and grateful as it perviously was, "Mr...?"

"Kenway."

"Well, we both thank you, Mr. Kenway." She lightly patted the sleeping child's head. "But we must go now. The doctor is waiting, and my water break has gone on long enough. Goodbye."

He played along and smiled as well. "Farewell, ma'am, and make sure to give the mother my regards." Another look, brief but simple: _I have a child. _

She nodded, smiled again, and turned around, quickly crossing the room and pushing the door open. A pause afterwards. He could motion to Charles, who he knew had done his best to eavesdrop and would hastily come to his side, inform him of the found Assassin and order him to follow her, ensure the child was in well hands, and then slit her throat. Assassins were rare, yes, and his Order was swiftly crushing them, but Assassins were _such_ the disease, and another death would hasten their eradication.

But instead, he allowed the babe's frail, newborn body to encompass his mind for a brief second, before discarding the Assassin and the boy from his mind permanently. He took his seat next to Charles, motioning for the bartender.

Charles finished his drink, setting the cup down.

"May I ask what that way about, sir?" he asked, a quizzical expression across his brow.

Haytham smirked as an aged man shuffled his way over to him. "Unintended public service."

* * *

_I thought of tearing out your eyes_

_But it would only lead to your demise_


End file.
